I don’t want to mask my poetry

I want you to understand me

Curse your perfect rhythms, rhymes, haikus

Your lyricism, your literary

When I try to adopt it, I turn mute.

Something channels through me

(I’ve never really found the root)

A demanding stream of consciousness

That cannot stop to breathe, let alone

Wait, conceptualise, draft, redraft

I can’t!

I have not mastered the art

Of concise craft

Of metaphors that become whole worlds

I can’t hold the image long enough

Before I move onto MORE WORDS

I’d love to sound like one of the greats…

But I’d still be me and I see things differently

I write how I feel!

Without beautiful walls of sliced brick

Without genius layers, recurring motifs

Without the savage axe of a wordsmith

Without delightful, cherry-picked symbolism

Without the need for an investigation

From a class of pupils armed with pens

I write from my sleeve

I show you my cards

No, I’m not literary

I can’t choose words for paintings

See, I only want you to connect with me

In literary confines, it’s hard to be free

To use my true voice

And I write how I feel... freely

Don’t ask me to mask my poetry

Don’t you want to understand me?